novelraw Arc 2 - Abhimanyu-Vadha Parva - Chapter 5 - The Tale of King Akampana and the Birth of Mrtyu
Arc 2 - Abhimanyu-Vadha Parva - Chapter 5 - The Tale of King Akampana and the Birth of Mrtyu
Sañjaya said
Having slain that foremost of warriors, yet ourselves wounded by a thousand arrows, we turned back, O King, at eventide—our bodies drenched in blood, our hearts weighed down with awe and weariness. Slowly we withdrew from the dreadful field, gazed upon by the watchful eyes of our foes, our ranks shattered and our senses reeling with grief.
Then came that strange, sorrow-laden hour which lies between day and night—when the world holds its breath and all omens speak in whispers. Jackals howled with voices hoarse and ill-boding. The sun, pale and crimson like the filaments of a fading lotus, sank low behind the western hills. He seemed to bear away with him the radiance of our swords, spears, and ornaments, leaving earth and sky clothed alike in dusky fire.
The sun went down in blood and flame,
The jackals howled his dying name;
The field lay mute, the red earth glowed—
Where heroes fell and rivers flowed.
All around, the plain was heaped with lifeless elephants—vast as mountains, tusked and terrible, their armored riders fallen from their backs, their standards drooping like broken trees. The earth gleamed with shattered chariots—axles splintered, wheels torn away—while warriors and steeds, crushed beneath them, lay still, mingled with trappings of gold and silken banners, their bright harnesses now dim with dust and blood.
Those massive cars, bereft of motion, seemed as living beings struck down by the invisible hand of Death. The field became a vision of ruin and dread steeds with gaping wounds and eyes starting from their sockets, entrails spilled upon the crimson ground, and human limbs tangled with golden mail.
Men who once slept upon costly beds now lay on the bare earth, their jeweled armor glimmering faintly in the dying light. The wind carried the mingled scent of sandal, iron, and blood.
Then came the night of horrors. Dogs and jackals gathered in packs, crows and vultures descended with harsh cries, and cranes dipped their long beaks into the dark pools of gore. Wolves, hyenas, ravens, and all the carrion beasts joined the feast. Rakṣasas and Piśācas—ghouls of the twilight—came dancing through the field, laughing in hideous joy, dragging the corpses of fallen men and drinking their blood like wine.
They tore the flesh with fang and nail,
They drank the blood in ghostly hail;
While demons laughed and shadows reeled—
In Yama’s court, the night was sealed.
Then was seen an awful river formed upon the field—terrible as the Vaitaraṇī itself, hard to cross even in thought. Its waters were the mingled blood of men and beasts; its eddies were strewn with corpses. Chariots formed its rafts, elephants its dark rocks, and the severed heads of kings its stones. Its mire was made of flesh and entrails, its banks were adorned with gleaming weapons—maces, swords, and spears—floating like garlands of death.
Through that dreadful stream the spirits of warriors drifted toward the world beyond, while Piśācas bathed and rejoiced in its crimson waves. Jackals howled from its shores, vultures circled above it, and the very air trembled with the cries of the dying and the laughter of the damned.
The earth, filled with horror, seemed herself to lament—yet to gaze unflinching at the carnage she bore.
A river flowed of blood and flame,
Of shattered steel and war’s red shame;
And through its waves the spirits sped—
The living passing to the dead.
At last, the surviving warriors, gazing upon that field—now an offering to Yama’s realm—slowly departed in silence. For there, in the midst of ruin, lay the mighty Abhimanyu, son of Arjuna, radiant still though fallen—his ornaments scattered, his weapons broken, yet his face serene and beautiful as the sacrificial fire when the clarified butter is spent.
He seemed not slain, but sleeping after victory—
like the altar-flame when the rite is done,
like Indra’s thunder laid aside after the storm,
like the moon fallen to earth, still bright upon the dust.
The gods looked down through veils of flame,
The winds grew hushed to speak his name;
And silence fell on Kurukṣetra’s plain—
Where glory rose through death and pain.
Sañjaya said
After the fall of that radiant hero, the leader of chariot-warriors—the son of Subhadrā—the Pāṇḍava chiefs were struck down by grief as by a thunderbolt. Casting aside their bows, slipping off their armour, they descended from their chariots and gathered round king Yudhiṣṭhira. Silent, tearful, their eyes fixed upon the dust where Abhimanyu had fallen, they sat like lions robbed of their cub. Their minds clung to the memory of that youth, the light of their line, who had entered the blazing circle of Drona’s array and never returned.
They sat in silence, hearts like stone,
The wind around them made its moan;
For he, their hope, their battle’s flame,
Lay cold—no voice to speak his name.
Then, overwhelmed with sorrow, the son of Dharma, Yudhiṣṭhira, lifting his eyes clouded with tears, spoke in a voice tremulous with pain
“Alas, Abhimanyu! For my sake, desiring my good, thou didst pierce Drona’s unyielding host—a sea of spears and chariots—and there, amid the tempest, thou didst shine like a sun before its setting. Against the mightiest of bowmen, skilled in every weapon, thou stoodst alone and drove them back in shame.
Thou didst meet fierce Duḥśāsana in battle and strike him senseless with thy arrows, but the son of that sinner hath struck thee down! Having crossed the ocean of Drona’s army, thou hast reached the dark shore of Yama’s realm. Alas, the heroic child of Arjuna lies low!
How shall I look upon Arjuna now? How meet the eyes of blessed Subhadrā, bereft of her only son? What shall I say to Hr̥ṣīkeśa, to Dhanañjaya, when they behold the empty seat in our ranks? What words, senseless and broken, shall fall from my lips?
Out of greed for victory I have wrought this ruin. Greed blinds the heart—it sees not the fall that yawns before it. Like the bee that gathers honey, careless of the pit beneath, so was I!
We sent to the forefront of war a child—one who should have known only the joy of play, of sleep upon soft beds, of jewels and tender care. Alas! We cast him into the storm of battle unskilled, untried!
Yet he went as the noble steed obeys its rider’s call—
proud, fearless, and ready to die rather than refuse.
What answer shall we give to Arjuna when he returns? His gaze, burning with grief and wrath, will blast us like fire.
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For Dhanañjaya—generous, wise, and gentle—is the soul of virtue forgiving, brave, reverent, the glory of heroes. The very gods acclaim his deeds—he who smote the Nivātakavacas and the Kalakeyas in their golden city, who slew the Paulomas in an instant and spared even his foes when they begged for mercy.
We—foolish, helpless—could not shield the son of such a man. Now fear and ruin hang over the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra! Arjuna’s wrath, blazing like Rudra’s fire, will sweep them from the earth.
Duryodhana, blinded by folly, doomed by wicked counsel, will see his armies perish and in despair will cast away his life.
What joy remains for me, O Sañjaya? When I behold that son of Indra’s son—peerless in might and radiance—fallen in dust, what value have victory, sovereignty, or even the immortality of heaven?”
He spoke, and silence filled the air,
His heart a storm of dark despair;
For joy was gone, and glory fled—
The child of Arjuna lay dead.
Sañjaya said
As Kuntī’s son Yudhiṣṭhira sat lamenting thus—his voice heavy with grief, his heart consumed by the loss of Abhimanyu—the venerable Ṛṣi Kṛṣṇa Dvaipāyana Vyāsa came to him, radiant like a smokeless flame.
The king rose swiftly, bowed low, and worshipped him with water and words of reverence. Seating the sage upon a golden seat, Yudhiṣṭhira, stricken by sorrow, spoke with trembling lips
“Alas, O holy one, the son of Subhadrā—child in years, yet lion in battle—hath been surrounded and slain by unrighteous warriors. Fighting against many mighty foes, hemmed in by car-warriors skilled in every weapon, he fell, O Sage, upon the field.
I had bidden him break open the ring of Drona’s array. Obedient, he entered like fire entering the forest. But we could not follow him, for Jayadratha barred the path. O grief unending! Those who follow war as a sacred vow fight equals face to face—but against Abhimanyu they fought unfairly, many against one. That unequal strife burns my soul and leaves me sleepless and undone.”
A child he was, yet man of flame,
Hemmed by the hosts, he met his fame;
Alone he stood, alone he fell—
And grief became our citadel.
Then the illustrious Vyāsa, that ocean of wisdom and austerity, gazed with compassion upon the son of Dharma. His voice, calm as the wind through sacred groves, rose to dispel the darkness of the king’s sorrow.
Vyāsa said
“O Yudhiṣṭhira, son of Dharma, thou art wise and steadfast; do not, like the unlearned, let grief unman thee. This youth, though tender in years, was strong in spirit and valour; having slain many foes, he hath ascended to the heavens of the righteous. Behold, O King, this law of life—unshaken, eternal—no being, whether god or man, Dānava or Gandharva, escapeth Death.
Death is the debt owed by all creation; none may withhold the payment.”
Yudhiṣṭhira, his eyes still dim with tears, replied softly
“Alas, O Grandsire, these lords of earth, mighty as lions, lie strewn upon the dust—bereft of pride, bereft of breath. Each of them possessed strength equal to ten thousand elephants; yet even they lie silent, fallen by men of their own kind.
They who came forth each dawn eager for victory—where are they now? Their armour is broken, their crowns cast down.
Now do I truly know the meaning of Death! For behold, these kings of measureless power lie lifeless upon the ground. I am troubled, O holy one—tell me whence came Death? Whose offspring is he? What is Death, and why does he seize all creatures? Explain this mystery, O sage divine.”
“Whence came this lord of end and pain?
Who binds all life in single chain?
Why must the strong, the wise, the fair,
All sink beneath his shadowed snare?”
Sañjaya continued
Unto Yudhiṣṭhira thus questioning, the compassionate Vyāsa, desiring to soothe his grief, spoke once more
Vyāsa said
“O King, listen well. Concerning the origin of Death, this ancient tale was once told by Nārada to the ruler Akampana. That tale, when heard with faith, dispels sorrow and loosens the bonds of attachment. It lengthens life, restores the heart to peace, and is as sacred as the study of the Vedas themselves. Hear now that story in full, O Bharata, and let thy mind be stilled.”
In ancient times, O son of Dharma, there was a monarch named Akampana, mighty in arms. Once, surrounded by enemies upon the battlefield, he was nearly overwhelmed. But his son—Prince Hari, bright as Indra’s thunderbolt, wise and valiant—rose to defend him.
That youth, resembling Nārāyaṇa himself, loosed thousands of arrows, striking down hosts of elephants and warriors. Yet though he fought like a god among men, he too was slain amid the battle’s fury.
After performing his son’s funeral rites, the king remained sunken in inconsolable sorrow. Day and night he wept, his mind darkened by grief. Seeing his anguish, the celestial sage Nārada descended from heaven and appeared before him.
The king, beholding the radiant seer, bowed low and said
“O divine one, my son was peer to Indra, strong and glorious. Yet he too lies dead. Tell me, O sage—who is Death? What power wields this unseen hand that snatches away the noble and the pure? Whence came Death, and what is his strength?”
Then Nārada, filled with compassion, spoke gently to the grieving monarch
Nārada said
“Listen, O mighty king, to an ancient tale known to the seers. In the beginning, when the Grandsire Brahmā created the worlds, he saw that all creatures, being born, showed no decay. The universe grew full but never waned.
Then Brahmā pondered ‘Creation increases endlessly—how shall balance be restored?’
Thus thinking, he grew wrathful; and from his anger sprang a Fire that rose from the sky, blazing in all directions. It filled heaven, earth, and mid-space, consuming all beings, mobile and immobile.
Then the Three Worlds were enveloped in flame, and the Creator, burning with wrath, began to dissolve his own creation.
At that moment, the great god Śiva, the eternal wanderer of the night, his matted locks crowned with the crescent moon, came before Brahmā. Falling at the feet of the Grandsire, Śiva, moved by compassion for all beings, spoke
‘O Lord of creatures, cease this burning! Tell me what thou desirest. Grant me the power to serve thy will and bring peace to creation.’
And Brahmā, beholding him who was born of his own thought, radiant as a thousand suns, said unto Śiva
‘O Sthāṇu, O great ascetic! What boon dost thou desire? Thou deservest all fulfilment. Speak, and it shall be granted thee.’”
Thus spoke the Sire, the First of Flame,
To Śiva, Lord of deathless name;
And from their word, through fire and breath,
Was born the power men call—Death.
Sañjaya said
When the grandsire Brahmā, blazing with wrath, had set the worlds aflame, the great Lord Śiva—called Sthāṇu, the Eternal, the Three-eyed Wanderer of the Night—approached him in compassion.
Falling at the feet of the Self-born, Śiva, his matted locks glistening like the rays of the rising sun, spoke with folded palms.
Śiva said
“O Lord of Creatures, Thou hast created beings of many kinds—
the moving and the still, the mortal and divine—
each fashioned with care, endowed with breath,
nurtured by Thy grace.
But now, behold! these very beings,
Thy children, are consumed by Thy own fire.
The mountains crumble, the rivers boil,
trees and herbs are turned to ash.
Seeing this, my heart is filled with pity.
O illustrious One, restrain Thy wrath—
be inclined once more to grace.”
Brahmā replied
“No wish had I to destroy my creation, O Rudra.
I sought the good of Earth.
The goddess Earth, oppressed by the burden of her creatures,
cried to me for release.
Yet no means could I find to lighten her weight.
Then, seized by wrath, I blazed forth—
and that wrath hath become this fire
which now devours the three worlds.”
Śiva said
“O Lord of the Universe,
let Thy compassion triumph over Thy fury.
Cease this burning,
and let not the living and the lifeless perish.
Through Thy grace, let the Threefold Time—
Past, Present, and Future—endure.
See, O Self-born, how Thy flame,
born of anger,
has sprung from Thee like a fire from the sky.
It blazes through mountains and forests,
consuming all that breathes and all that stands.
Already the worlds are vanishing in smoke.
Be pleased, O Great Creator—
withdraw Thy wrath into Thyself,
that the beings of Thy making may not cease to be.
Let life continue under Thy protection,
for Thou hast appointed me as guardian of creation.
Let this cosmos, mobile and immobile, remain.
Turn Thy gaze of mercy upon Thy children.”
Thus spoke the Lord of mountain’s peak,
With voice of thunder calm and meek;
And Brahmā, hearing Śiva’s plea,
Drew back his wrath for all to see.
Hearing the words of Maheśvara, the Divine Grandsire was moved to compassion. Desiring the welfare of beings, he gathered his fiery anger back into his own being, quelling the flames that devoured the worlds.
Then the Benefactor of Creation, serene once more, declared the twin duties of all existence—production and emancipation, the rhythm of birth and release that sustains the uni
But even as he subdued his wrath, a wondrous being was born from it. From the doors of his senses she arose—a woman dark as the storm, tinged with red and tawny hue. Her eyes and tongue glowed crimson like molten fire, and her face shone with terrible beauty. She was adorned with ear-rings of blazing light, with ornaments that flashed like stars.
Smiling faintly, she looked upon Brahmā and Śiva—the twin Lords of the universe—and turned southward, her footsteps echoing like thunder.
Then Brahmā, the Lord of all creation and dissolution, called after her
“Stay, O dark and radiant One!
Thou hast issued from my wrath,
born for the ending of all things.
Therefore shall thy name be Mṛtyu—Death.
Go forth, O Death, and slay my creatures.
Destroy both fool and sage alike at my command.
This is thy task and thy blessing.
By fulfilling it, thou shalt gain thy welfare.”
Hearing these words of command, the lotus-eyed maiden bowed her head. But sorrow filled her heart, and her beauty darkened with pity. She pondered the burden of her charge—and, helpless in anguish, began to weep.
Her tears fell upon the earth in streams of light, pure and melodious like the notes of a lute.
Then the Grandsire, beholding her compassion, stretched out his hands and caught those shining tears. Holding them gently, he spoke again, his voice now tender as a father’s
Her tears became the seeds of grace,
Of mercy born in death’s embrace;
And Brahmā held them, bright as rain—
To heal the world of death and pain.